


A Night For Comfort, Not For Bravery

by littlemouseinapartyhat



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Couch Cuddles, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Platonic Cuddling, Pre-Relationship, Sleepy Cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-20
Updated: 2021-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-29 02:55:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30149682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlemouseinapartyhat/pseuds/littlemouseinapartyhat
Summary: “Come on, sweetheart,” Adam knelt on the tiled floor at Fergus’ feet and carefully slid off his professional leather shoes. “You okay?” He asked, dropping his usual self-assured persona once behind the comforting shield of Fergus’ blue wooden door.***After the inquiry, Fergus is left a broken man. Hardly surprising he needs someone to take care of him for an evening.
Relationships: Adam Kenyon/Fergus Williams
Comments: 7
Kudos: 19





	A Night For Comfort, Not For Bravery

**Author's Note:**

> Hiya,, this is pure self indulgent cuddling and comfort that is incredibly ooc,, like really really ooc. Literally no plot, no even remotely decent writing, just nearly 4000 words of snuggling. So if that’s your thing,, enjoy Xx  
> (Rated T for language, no worse than the show)

Today, Fergus had had an objectively shit day. 

The inquiry had gone terribly. Adam would hesitate to call it a complete disaster: Fergus hadn’t confessed his deepest, darkest secrets to the baying sharks of the British press; he hadn’t thrown up, or cried, or committed any other kind of embarrassing bodily function; he hadn’t even said anything completely career ending, career stumbling for sure but not quite ending. But it was still terrible. 

Adam couldn’t help but cringe when thinking back over his boss’ words: it had all gone by in such a blur that he was sure Fergus would hardly remember his closing “skin flakes” line. But Adam, who had been watching head in hands from the next room, certainly would. He had bundled Fergus away into the closest taxi as quickly as he could - hands all over him - furious at Fergus’ horrific performance on the stand. But he felt the anger dissipate as soon as he turned to look Fergus in the eye for the first time since he had frog-marched him from the building. Wide eyed fear, pallid complexion, shaking hands, and furtive glances towards his special advisor told Adam everything he needed to know about Fergus’ mental state and he couldn’t help but sympathise. 

The car ride across London had given Adam time to calm down and refocus his attention on a very clearly unwell Fergus and he was determined to give the tired and terrified man currently lying on his shoulder what he needed. 

“Ferg,” Adam murmured, shrugging his shoulder under Fergus’ head and breaking him from his melancholy trance. “Come on, idiot. You gotta get out some time before the next election.” Fergus snuffled closer into Adam. The cold tip of his nose bumped into Adam’s exposed neck sending a shiver down Adam’s spine. 

“Come on,” Adam carefully took Fergus’ arm and shook. He watched as Fergus’ head swung up, a bleary-eyed confusion taking over his pale face until he turned slowly to open the door. 

“Hold on, Ferg,” Adam said, messily thrusting a few notes into the driver’s hand. 

“I thought I was taking you-“ the cabbie’s gruff voice said over his shoulder.

“Doesn’t matter,” Adam snapped. “Keep the change.” And with that he darted from the car to race and take Fergus by the arm snapping him from the intense stare he had fixed on his own front door.

“After all these years, you’ve finally fucking lost it,” Adam grumbled. He led Fergus in through the door, deciding that wrestling with his own set of front door keys would be easier than trying to explain the concept of a lock to a catatonic Fergus. 

Once they had negotiated the front porch, Adam carefully sat Fergus down at the bottom of the stairs, made some noise towards encouraging him to take off his shoes, before disappearing further into the tiny one bedroom house to turn on lights and close curtains. He returned to find Fergus sat staring down at his shoelaces with a look of indignation. His stubby fingers and despondent brain had not cooperated: his laces were knotted even tighter than before and his mind even more wracked. He let out a frustrated groan, the only sound he’d made in the near hour since the conclusion of his problematic interview. 

“Come on, sweetheart,” Adam knelt on the tiled floor at Fergus’ feet and carefully slid off his professional leather shoes. “You okay?” He asked, dropping his usual self-assured persona once behind the comforting shield of Fergus’ blue wooden door.

“Yeah, fine,” Fergus murmured. 

“You know, for a politician you’re a shit liar,” Adam muttered. “Go get changed, yeah? Shower and something comfy, then you’ll feel fine no doubt.” When Fergus made no attempt to to get up, not looking as if he had even registered what had been said, Adam pulled him up by the shoulders, turned him around and gave him a gentle, friendly push towards the stairs. 

This had happened a number of times before. Working in politics, most of Adam and Fergus’ days were subpar but occasionally they had truly awful days - days when everything that could possibly go wrong did go wrong - and Fergus had always found it hard to cope. Adam was well aware, through their over decade long friendship, that Fergus wasn’t the most stable of characters at the best of times but the anxiety that had plagued him as a teenager was only heightened by the treacherous work environment he experienced on a daily basis. 

During these particularly difficult work days, Adam had quickly learnt what to do. The first few times it had happened he didn’t even come inside, he had pushed Fergus out of the car and continued home with guilt overriding any conversation the cabbie tried to have. Since then he’d vowed to ensure Fergus was safe and well and happy before journeying across London to his flat. 

So there he stood, tie off, sleeves rolled up in Fergus’ kitchen frying French toast while he waited for his poorly friend to return.  
He glanced up to see Fergus lingering in the doorway in baby blue pyjama pants and a white T-shirt, brushing water droplets from his damp hair. Adam held out a tea towel for him to take. 

“You’ll get water on the floor,” he reasoned, as Fergus took it. “Don’t want you sliding into another bloody disaster today, do we?”

Fergus smiled, only barely curling his lips up with no light behind his eyes. He sat down at the small wooden table and thumped his forehead down on the cold surface. He was snapped from his sorrows by Adam clearing his throat and sliding a plate stacked high with toast across to him with an expectant look - informing Fergus that he was expected to eat everything before him with no objections. 

Adam clicked on the small radio beside him on the table, knowing Fergus was not yet ready to talk: ‘Creep’ - Radiohead. Images of 1993 danced in front of Adam: Fergus’ young and gorgeous freckled face when they had first met at university. Adam hummed along to the music and and gazed over Fergus as he began to munch on the golden toast, his eyes staying fixated on the long lines of the wood table to distinctly avoid Adam’s gaze. 

“I must say: I’ve outdone myself this time. Best meal I’ve ever made you, reckon?” Adam said, muffled around the toast. 

“Not exactly a high bar,” Fergus murmured. Adam kicked him lightly under the table, before resting his ankle gently against Fergus’.

“I don’t see you complaining, you’ll scoff anything I make you,” Adam said, brushing crumbs from the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah, well,” Fergus said. “It’s edible, usually. And on days like this, that’s all I can really ask for.”

“You can ask for whatever you want, Ferg,” Adam said. “Might make it easier to if you ask for what you need. I’m not a mindreader. I can’t go all fucking Derren Brown to figure out what you want for dinner.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“Yes, you do,” Adam said nonchalantly, with a level of calm finality no one could argue with, let alone an upset and sleep-deprived junior minister. 

“Yeah,” Fergus whispered. Silence fell between the pair as both continued their toast. Fergus took a swig of his tea and tapped his bare foot against Adam’s.  
“There’s pyjamas in the bottom drawer in my room, if you want them,” Fergus informed him. It wasn’t as if Adam didn’t know this, Fergus told him every time and every time Adam helped himself.

Once they’d finished eating, Adam made his way up the creaky wooden stairs, having (like a weary parent) plonked Fergus in the dark living room in front of the TV and told him to pick something funny and categorically non-political. The tinkling noise of the QI titles reached Adam as he stepped up onto the landing. 

He’d always preferred Fergus’ place to his own: his had no life, no soul. It was an anti-personality black and grey box designed for the exact kind of Tory-boy business-bachelor Adam embodied. But Fergus’, oh Fergus’ was different. Sure, it was a boring terraced house on an unassuming street, not the typical MP’s pad but still expensive in London. But to Adam it was so much more than that. It was homely. 

It was filled with soft furnishings, dusty pastel colours, and many, many memories. Memories of the day Adam had helped Fergus move in and they’d argued like an old married couple trying to manoeuvre a double bed up the narrow staircase. Memories of late nights of policy planning where they had spent hours, days even, lying across the living room rug scribbling down new ideas and swigging from bottle after bottle of cheap beer. 

But what drew Adam most to Fergus’ were all the photos. It was like stepping straight into an album of people who Fergus loved and was loved by. Rooms filled with glossy pictures in golden frames: a few of Fergus and his sisters on the wall up the stairs, his parents’ wedding photos right at the top, his niece and nephew proudly upon the mantelpiece, university friends, work friends, even school friends. 

But, as Adam creaked open the door to Fergus’ bedroom, it was most of all his own face staring back at him. Drunk and high at university parties, arms around each other, obnoxiously nineties neon outfits glaring in the flashing lights of the disco. A photo snapped by a journalist at the moment Fergus won his seat sat in the middle of the fireplace, the two of them embraced together with wide smiles and tears in their eyes. Adam stared at the photo on top of Fergus’ dresser, knowing how hard Fergus had to dig to procure that photo from the Mail reporter. He smiled and began helping himself to Fergus’ pyjamas. They were always slightly too short for him, made him look like a child with patterned red and blue trousers reaching halfway down his shins but he could never quite bring himself to care how ridiculous he looked. 

He made his way back downstairs and pushed open the living room door. Fergus barely glanced up at him, sad silence filling the room. Reaching down to pat Fergus gently on the shoulder, Adam sank back into the smooth fabric of the sofa and rested his feet up on the coffee table, crossing them neatly at the ankle before finally turning to Fergus. He was resting his head on the right hand arm of the sofa, his back bent at an unnatural angle, but it seemed as if tea, toast, and the calming tones of Stephen Fry had worked wonders on Fergus’ mental well-being as his face had softened immensely, no scowl resting on his features. 

Adam waited in silence. He wasn’t sure why, but it was always what he did. He waited, following the flickering of the TV light across Fergus’ features looking for any sign of discomfort. He counted to 100 and then decided he was done. 

“You alright, mate?” He whispered into the dark living room. Fergus blinked forcefully to try and stop the tears springing to his eyes, as they always did when Adam finally broke the silence. 

“No,” Fergus whispered back. 

“Come here then, daft git,” Adam always used a tender insult at these moments, to hopefully mask the overwhelming expression of both fondness and worry in his tone. He shuffled across the sofa and carefully lifted Fergus from his sideways, back-breaking tilt gathering him into his arms. Fergus shifted toward him almost instinctively, burying his face into Adam’s neck. Adam’s heart broke as he pulled Fergus’ legs up over his lap to cradle him closer. 

“This is so pathetic,” Fergus choked out, his entire body jolting with a sob. “I’m a fucking Minister!”

“Fuck, even Ministers cry, Fergus, you’ve been in politics long enough to know that!” Adam murmured with a chuckle. The rumbling vibration of his deep voice reverberated through Fergus’ body, starting at his head resting on Adam’s broad shoulder and shivering right the way through to his bare feet. Usually, when Fergus was upset, he would sniffle half-heartedly into a tissue and passively allow Adam to drape his arm around him. But to be practically on top of Adam curled up in his lap and scrabbling at the back of his shirt trying to shuffle even closer, that concerned Adam greatly. 

“You wanna talk, huh? What’s happening in here?” Adam tapped Fergus lightly on the top of the head before stopping to slide his hand down to rest lightly on Fergus’ neck, letting his fingers tickle the short hairs there. 

“What the fuck do you think?” Fergus sobbed, taking deep, choking breaths to keep up with his crying. “God, this is awful!”

“Alright, you’re alright, Fergs,” Adam cooed. He stroked a hand gently down Fergus’ back and laid it to rest on his warm skin where the soft material of his shirt had ridden up. 

“I’m just so fucking useless, Adam,” Fergus muttered, sniffling. 

“You’re not use-.”

“I am!” He cried. “Everything is just a fucking blur but I did so badly. I’ve fucked my own career, and yours too - God, I’ve ruined your entire life. There’s absolutely no way we’re getting re-elected. How the fuck am I in politics?”

“Because you’re bloody good at it,” Adam interjected to stop Fergus’ rambling. “I won’t sugarcoat it for you, Fergus, today wasn’t great, yeah? But it’s not the end of the world, that was a tough, tough gig and you did way better than some of the others!”

“I fucking hated it,” Fergus sobbed. “The whole time all I could think is how disappointed you would be with me, how angry you’d be. Every word, I just couldn’t stop it, every word was just worse than the last and I’m so fucking sorry. I’m sorry, I am.”

“Shush now, don’t apologise,” Adam rubbed his back with a sigh. “You did really well, Ferg. Don’t for a second feel sorry.”

Fergus let out an indignant huff and sniffed against Adam’s neck, reaching up to violently scrub tears from his eyes. Adam leant back, his eyes roaming freely across Fergus’ red-blotched face and hand coming to rest at his jaw. 

“You’re great, Fergus. Wonderful,” he said gently. “You’re the only person in the entire department who’s actually bearable, likeable even. Fuck our careers, fuck the rest of the world, just you and me here right now. That’s all that matters.”

“Mmhm,” Fergus agreed. 

“Who cares what people think of your performance, huh? The rest of the world are cunts. You’re not, I’m not.” Fergus chuckled and raised an eyebrow. “Okay maybe we are cunts, I think today has proved that more than anything, but we’re cunts together.”

“Not for much longer,” Fergus muttered. “Considering I’ve just lost our fucking jobs.”

“Do you honestly think we’ll stop being utter pricks together if we leave DoSAC?” Fergus shrugged, Adam scoffed. “Christ, I reckon you’re gonna flunk the election just to get rid of me! You’re not throwing me out on the streets that easily. I already practically live here, Ferg. Do you reckon I’ll really be disappear off the face of the Earth if we lose, huh? Cause I’ll still be here: stealing from your fridge, hogging your TV remote, forgetting to put the toilet seat down,” Fergus nuzzled closer into Adam’s hand with a giggle. “You aren’t letting me down, you aren’t ruining our lives, and you certainly aren’t losing me. We’re solid, you and I and I’ll be here as long as you want me.” Adam explained. Like usual, he hoped a careful run down of well-justified reassurances would bring Fergus around, much like their various nights sat on Fergus’ living room floor working through policies. 

“Thank you,” Fergus sniffled quietly while Adam held him. “I appreciate it, Ads. I know all this sentimental shit doesn’t come easily to you!”

“Hmpf, you’d better not tell anyone! They’ll have my balls for this at the Mail,” Adam said barely covering his smile, which Fergus immediately returned his face still blotched with tears. 

“Here,” Adam pulled up the hem of his own T-shirt to wipe Fergus’ cheeks one by one. “You’re alright.” 

“I’m sorry,” Fergus whispered. “You don’t have to be here.” Adam ran a hand gently down Fergus’ thigh and decided on the same whispering tone. 

“Has it occurred to you, darling,” he muttered, “that I actually wanna be here, yeh?” 

“Darling,” Fergus stated, very simply. Adam hummed quietly and curled closer to Fergus, wrapping his arms tightly around his waist and relaxing them both back into the plush sofa. 

Two hours and four panel shows later, Fergus was sprawled on top of Adam across the soft blue sofa, his head resting against Adam’s neck and fluffy red hair tickling his jaw, like long grass on bare legs on a summer’s day: ticklish but warm and comforting. Adam had pulled a slightly scratchy blanket off the back of the sofa, tucked Fergus tightly into his chest, and cuddled him close. Running his hands gently down Fergus’ back and letting his nails drag over his bare skin, Adam sighed and nuzzled into Fergus’ hair. 

“You should go to bed,” he mumbled over the tune of the Would I Lie To You credits, stretching out his legs up over the end of the sofa and flexing his frozen toes outside the blanket. 

“One more episode,” Fergus whispered back. He splayed his hand over Adam’s chest and curled his fingers under the collar of Adam’s shirt, allowing them to glance over his throat. 

Adam’s breathe hitched before he spoke. “It’s midnight, Fergs. Come on.” The nickname ran a shiver down Fergus’ spine, it always sounded as sweet as honey when it slipped from his best friend’s mouth. Adam sat up, bringing Fergus with him. He pulled away slightly and got his first proper look at Fergus since they’d lay down. His eyes were brighter, if slightly more tired, and his cheeks rosy with the light of his small smile. Adam stroked two gentle fingers over one cheek. “Come on, bedtime.”

“I’m not a child,” Fergus grumbled. 

“Hmm, you sure?” Adam stood offering his hand to Fergus. “Would you like some warm milk and a bedtime story too?”

“You’re fucking with me, but I’m not opposed,” Fergus chuckled and took the hand perfectly poised in front of him to begin the journey to bed. 

“You didn’t have to do this, Ads,” Fergus said, pulling back his heavy duvet and throwing himself dramatically onto the mattress. Adam snorted and drew the curtains with a small flourish, shutting out the single beam of the streetlight that was flooding Fergus’ otherwise dusky bedroom. He spun around just in time to see Fergus nestle beneath his covers. Standing resolute at the foot of the bed, Adam couldn’t help but smile and picture a young freckle-faced Fergus scampering into bed between his doting parents and begging for one more story and one more cuddle.

“What are you staring at?” Fergus asked. Suddenly, he was back to normal in Adam’s eyes: no longer a little boy with red fluffy hair and grass stained knees demanding all manner of attention from his parents, instead a grown man after a bad, bad day in politics demanding all manner of attention from his best mate. 

“Mm, I certainly don’t get paid enough to tuck my boss into bed at night,” Adam chuckled. “But here I am, huh? What does that say about me?”

“That you run a lot deeper than the ‘walk like a God, curse like a student’ aesthetic you’ve got going on?” 

“Or perhaps you’ve got me down to a tee, and you’re some mystical exception to my scandalous ways? Considered that?”

“Charmed,” Fergus giggled. Adam hovered awkwardly beside the bed, carefully brushing his hand over the duvet and smoothing it over Fergus’ chest. 

“Err, good night then,” he stuttered, patting him awkwardly on the shoulder and tucking the duvet closer into Fergus’ chin letting his fingers rest against his neck for just a moment to long to be considered purely friendly. 

“Night, Adam,” Fergus pressed a chaste kiss to Adam’s long, thin fingers where they rested at the base of his neck, sending a small spark through Adam’s body. “Thank you.”

“Quite alright, sweetheart,” Adam sighed, extricating his hand from Fergus’ neck, and slowly stepping into the hall to pull the door closed behind him, finally leaving Fergus alone in the dark. 

One day, Adam had always vowed on these kinds of days, one day he would shut the door of Fergus’ bedroom from the inside instead. One day, instead of climbing down the stairs and tying his shoes at the bottom step, he would be brave and pull back the covers to clamber into the bed. He’d be brave and pull Fergus close only to feel him drift off into blissful sleep in his arms. He’d be brave and allow himself the joy of waking up curled around Fergus, their arms and legs tangled together like boyfriends of all things. Adam scoffed at the fantastical daydream as he gathered his work clothes from where he’d left them at the bottom of the stairs. Today wouldn’t be the day for bravery.

He flicked off the hall light and locked the front door behind him, testing it quickly to make sure Fergus would be safe and sound inside. Stepping out onto the quiet street, he took a final glance up at Fergus’ bedroom window before setting off down the road towards the nearest Tube station. 

His breath swirled in front of him and the crisp February air crept up the legs of his pyjamas causing a shiver to run across his skin. He always kept the pyjamas, saved him from changing again once he got home. At first he’d felt like an oddball getting on the Tube at night like this, exhausted and dressed in another man’s pyjamas. But he’d quickly realised that at 1am on a Tuesday in London, he still wouldn’t be the weirdest looking fucker on any given street. 

He let out a huff of laughter at the unusual circumstances and glanced down at his ridiculous appearance: content in the knowledge that tomorrow he’d walk this exact route towards the fluorescent lights of the Tube station after a night of policy planning, drinking, and laughing (and returning pyjamas). The same homely experienced he savoured every day.

But today, Adam had had an objectively wonderful day.


End file.
